A Christmas Resolution Read online

  “He is a very good man,” Clementine protested. “When you get to know him better, you will understand that. There is a purity in him that I must try hard to live up to. You will help me, won’t you?”

  “Of course I will,” Celia promised. It was the only possible answer to give. “Every step of the way,” she added. “Now we have to plan what your wedding dress will be like.”

  “Not expensive, but graceful,” Clementine said with gravity, then a sudden, shy smile.

  “We will all help,” Celia promised. “Everyone will be happy for you. Every woman in the congregation.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Yes! Except, of course, those who are envious.” If she was going to lie, she should go all the way.

  Clementine smiled and the sparkle came back into her eyes. “I knew you’d be happy for me. You don’t mind if I go home now, do you? I just wanted to tell you…”

  “Of course not!” Celia replied instantly. She meant it. She needed to be alone to absorb this news.

  * * *

  Celia ate a light lunch alone at the small table in the kitchen. She would cook a hot dinner to share with Hooper when he returned, probably well after dark. He would be tired after a long day on the river, and no doubt cold, although he did not seem to feel it as much as she did. Or perhaps he was inured to physical hardship by the years he had spent at sea, earlier in his life. She had no idea why anybody would choose such a dangerous occupation, except out of necessity to provide for himself, and perhaps for others. She shuddered to think that maybe that had been what it was: an escape from bitter poverty to the dangers of the sea.

  One night, when she was warm and safe in bed, lying close to him, hearing his even breathing, she had asked him. He was not a talkative man, but that night he had spoken at length. He had described the beauty of being out at sea; the light in the sky when it seemed to stretch all around you, the immensity from horizon to horizon, beyond the imagination; the stars blazing in the darkness when there was no moon to outshine them, no city light or fog to lessen their glory. “You feel as if you could reach out and touch them with your hand,” he had said. “You think of God, who made them, all of them, far more than a man could count in a lifetime, even if he did nothing else.”

  She had understood the depth of his words, their magnitude. “Perhaps we should all see that, at least once,” she had suggested. “Makes our self-importance look a little absurd. Do you suppose God has a sense of humor?”

  He had tightened his arm around her. “He has to! And perhaps He laughs or cries over us.”

  “Do you ever want to go back to sea?” she asked and then, an instant later, wished she had not. She had no right to. And perhaps she did not want the answer.

  “Would you come with me?” He touched her hair gently, as if he loved the feel of it through his fingers.

  “I would be terrified, but I would,” she said honestly. “It would be better than being left behind…without you.”

  “I’ve seen some wonderful things,” he said softly. “I’ll tell you about them.”

  And he had, little by little, since that night. He had used simple language, but his love and awe for the world’s beauty came through in his words. She smiled now, even at the thought.

  * * *

  That Sunday afternoon, Clementine did what she had done a few times a month for several years now. She went to visit a refuge for women of all sorts: sick women, hungry women, homeless women, many of them prostitutes or formerly so. She had first gone there years ago with her aunt Lily, a good-hearted woman who quietly did what so many others talked about: cared for the less fortunate. When Lily died, Clementine had continued her work. It gave her a quiet, peaceful sense of gratitude for all she had, and a willingness to share it with others.

  She packed up some cakes and tarts that she had baked and, putting on her heaviest cape, went out into the wind. She took the ferry over the river that divided where she lived from where she visited the women. She kept this part of her life a secret; talking about it might seem boastful or self-righteous.

  It was a bitterly cold journey across the open water, but she loved the winter light, and she knew most of the ferrymen and had heard stories about their experiences.

  When she reached the other side, she paid the fare and then went up the steps and along the street, hurrying in the cold, eager to get there and share the cakes. She went into the building and greeted all the people she knew, and then those she did not yet know. She handed out the cakes and pastries—not as food to cure hunger but as a gesture to show they were remembered. After all, it was Christmas, and weren’t they here to sing carols together?

  There was one girl she liked particularly. Bessie was eighteen or nineteen, a prostitute for a couple of years now. She had tried hard to make a living at regular work, but lost too many jobs through illness, occasionally drinking a little too much, and too often being insolent. She was very pretty, with dark blue eyes and thick, curling auburn hair.

  Clementine was eager to talk to her, and when her basket of baked goods was empty she went over and sat beside her. They talked about trivial things. It was not the subject that mattered but the tone of voice, the smile, the full attention given to the girl by somebody who liked her and didn’t want anything in return.

  “You look happy,” Bessie said, watching Clementine’s face. “You’re expecting a good Christmas? You’ve got family?” She looked away, as if she did not want Clementine to read the loneliness in her eyes.

  “No,” Clementine answered. “But I will have soon. I’m going to be married.”

  “What’s he like?” Bessie asked, turning back to face her.

  “He’s quite a lot older than I am,” Clementine replied. “But he’s…a very good man.”

  “It’s all that matters,” Bessie said candidly. “It makes up for everything else.”

  “I think so, too,” Clementine agreed. “He’s honest, prudent, very…I don’t know. It’s hard to describe. He’s always fair. Everybody respects him.” She tried to say what it was about Seth Marlowe that she liked. “I know I can trust him.” She smiled. “He’s been badly hurt in the past. I want to make him happy again.”

  “You will,” Bessie replied with certainty. “You’d make anybody happy…if you wanted to.” There was a faraway, wistful look in her eyes. “What’s his name?”

  “Seth Marlowe,” Clementine replied.

  Bessie sat perfectly still. She hardly seemed even to breathe.

  “Bessie?” Clementine put one hand on the girl’s arm.

  “Oh! Sorry. I was…daydreaming.” She turned to look at Clementine. “Does he live near where you do? Are you moving to his house or is he moving to yours?”

  “I don’t have a house,” Clementine admitted. “I just lodge with an old lady and look after her. Do the cooking, cleaning, and all that.”

  “So where will you live, then?” Bessie’s eyes filled with tears. “I suppose it means you won’t be coming here anymore.” She wiped the tears away angrily.

  “No, it doesn’t,” Clementine said quickly. Seth would approve of her coming to visit such people and giving whatever help she could. She gave Bessie a description of Miss Drew’s house, and then of Seth’s house, and then something of the whole village.

  “Sounds nice,” Bessie said, making herself smile, but not looking at Clementine. “You will come again, won’t you?”

  “Definitely,” Clementine promised. “I might bring a friend.” She thought of Celia. If Seth was displeased with her for going to such a place alone, Celia would come with her, she knew that. “You’ll like her, too, and she’ll like you,” she added.

  When the other women were gathered together, Bessie said to Clementine, “Are you going to sing with us?” She stood up and walked slowly to the others, until they were all in a group. Clementine joined the
m and the music began. It was an old piano, and some of the notes were missing, but the sweetness of the singing made up for it.

  * * *

  Celia made hot stew with thought and care. It was the sort of thing that would not spoil were it served an hour or two later than planned. She was getting good at that, and it gave her pleasure to see her husband’s enjoyment of it. Her…husband. Sometimes she still could not believe she’d found him.

  Hooper was tired and cold when he finally came home. He took off his heavy peacoat and boots, washed at the basin, then sat down to eat.

  They spoke of trivial things and then ate in companionable silence in the small room full of books. His precious few had been read many times in lonely hours at sea. There were some surprising classics among them, even slim volumes of poetry whose words could be read time and time again without growing stale. Her books included Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters, plus books on history, gardening, the dreams and memories of people in the past whose inner thoughts were anything but pedestrian. Celia found their company timeless.

  Where this room once felt bare, it was now pleasantly crowded with memories and hopes.

  Celia served a fresh apple pie with a little cream. After the meal, Hooper sat by the fire while she cleared the table.

  A few minutes passed, then he leaned over, added another log of wood, and sat back again in his chair, looking at her. “What is it?” he asked. His tone did not change; it was still casual, as if he were continuing a conversation already begun.

  The knot inside her tightened. She still had not made up her mind on how much to tell him about Clementine, but the moment had come when she had to answer. He would know if she tried to evade him. Would it hurt him? It would hurt her, if it were the other way around.

  He waited, his eyes searching her face.

  “I learned a lot more about Clementine today,” she began.

  He frowned. “Bad things?”

  “Oh, no. I mean, not anything bad that she has done.” Now she must explain, or he would not believe her. “I learned that she has no father.”

  As usual, he was direct. “You mean she’s illegitimate. So are a lot of people. Does it matter to you?”

  She was horrified. “No, of course not!” She was hurt that he could even consider this. “It means she is far more vulnerable than most of us, that she had no man in her life in her growing-up years for her to…”

  He waited.

  “…to know how she should be treated,” she finished.

  “Celia, what has really changed today? Clementine has known this for years. What is it you are afraid of?”

  She decided to answer bluntly. “She told me she is going to marry Seth Marlowe.” Then she looked at him. The disapproval was immediately clear in his eyes. “I had to pretend to be pleased for her. She needs it so much.” Would he understand that for a man to be unmarried was no shame, but to be an unmarried woman meant no one would have you? She had felt the steady, angry pain of that tighten within her, and she was ready to defend Clementine.

  “Well, it can’t be because she is with child,” he said with a twisted smile she misunderstood.

  “Why not?” she challenged him. “She’s not so old that she couldn’t be, John. She’s only just over thirty.” She felt the double sting of that: she herself was almost certainly too old for childbearing.

  “Not with that passionless husk of a man,” he replied. “With someone else, quite possibly.”

  She thought of Clementine’s shining eyes, filled with hope, and found her own eyes welling with tears.

  “And you are afraid for her?” Hooper asked. “That little by little he will kill her spirit?”

  She looked up. “Yes, I think I am, and I hate myself for it. The whole sermon today was about repentance and forgiveness. It was the best sermon I have ever heard Arthur Roberson give. I think everyone believed that. It was as if we emerged from the church in a wave of joy, and it wasn’t just hope. What he said was true, it made sense, and it was for every man and woman on earth.” She reached for his hand. “John, am I so mean-spirited that I can’t be glad and hope for Marlowe that Clementine will bring him happiness at last?”

  He smiled, looked down at their hands clasped together on her knee, then up again. He was not a handsome man—his face was weathered by years at sea—but there was a great gentleness in it. “You can hope,” he replied. “But you have more sense than to think it is likely. I admire your faith in God, and I’m trying to learn from it, but you never believed that it would all be easy. What would we learn from that?”

  “He’s already suffered a great deal,” she pointed out. “His first wife, Rose, brought him nothing but grief and shame. Doesn’t he deserve a little happiness?”

  “I don’t think deserving has anything to do with it,” Hooper said thoughtfully. “But if you think he does deserve it, why are you so upset now?”

  She looked away. “Because I don’t like him. I think he’s self-righteous and judgmental. And he’ll hurt Clementine, probably convinced all the time that he’s making her a better woman, which in his eyes means more submissive, more obedient, and more grateful.”

  Hooper laughed outright, a rich, joyous sound she heard too seldom. His job was hard, and he saw too much tragedy. He felt it, even if he seldom allowed anyone else to see it. The reward lay in the fellowship of the men he worked with and the knowledge that he was making the river, called by some “the longest street in London,” a better place.

  “Are you laughing at me?” she asked without resentment.

  “I love you,” he said simply. “Keep your own wisdom. Don’t let the world’s wisdom, with its hard experiences, overtake you. It isn’t always right.”

  The warmth spread through her. All those years alone, fending for herself, and now this: a man who not only loved her, but respected her. “I hope not. It’s often so dark. But I still feel guilty for listening with a whole heart to the vicar’s sermon and then, less than half an hour later, being horrified that Clementine was thinking of marrying Marlowe. I was filled with fear and anger, real anger.” She smiled ruefully. “I wanted God to forgive everyone, including me, even Seth Marlowe, but just don’t let him marry Clementine!” She looked steadily into Hooper’s face, then drew in a sharp breath. “Oh God, that means I haven’t really forgiven him, doesn’t it? And that I still don’t want him to have happiness, to belong again—at least not to Clementine. I really believe he will hurt her. Not physically but emotionally.” She took a deep breath. “When you love someone, you care desperately what they think of you.”

  “I know,” Hooper said in little above a whisper. “That’s the best and the worst of caring so much. That’s why we need the ordinary things, just to make it bearable, a common cause that matters, but where failure is bearable. You get up and try again.” He gave a half smile, very gently. “You forgive the other person, and you forgive yourself.”

  “I’ve got to be sorry first, though, haven’t I?” It was only half a question. She knew the answer.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “But you don’t have to like him.”

  “Good, because I don’t think I can. I feel such a hypocrite. Everyone can forgive the people they like. Just shrug it off and the next day you don’t even remember it. You don’t want to, so it slips away, and we’re happy to let it, so it’s easy.”

  “And did the Reverend Mr. Roberson say that?” he asked.

  “Say what?”

  “That it’s easy to forgive those you like? That is the test, isn’t it…forgiving those you don’t like? Especially those who have hurt someone you love. Anyone can do the easy things.”

  She knew exactly what he meant, and he was right. “I’m a hypocrite,” she admitted.

  He leaned forward and kissed her on the lips softly and with infinite gentleness. She felt happiness fill her, a warmth flooding h
er whole body. This was unforgivable. She was far too happy to dare deny anyone else all the joy they could find. She must truly stop judging Seth Marlowe. Dislike him all you want, she told herself, but don’t dare judge him. She raised her hand and touched Hooper’s face softly, tenderly, and let this happiness take over all her thoughts.

  * * *

  Hooper went to work early the next morning, just before sunrise. So close to Christmas, it was nearly the shortest day of the year. A heavy mist clung to the face of the river, scattering the sheen on the water and veiling the wharfs and warehouses, the closely moored ships, in gray. Only the plain black lines of the spars were visible.

  He found it beautiful. Perhaps that was eccentric, but he watched the faint breeze stirring the vapor like a slow breathing, each moment revealing a little more: a black mast drawing circles in the sky as the tide moved the hull of a ship riding at anchor; flashes of silver light, slow-crawling ferries crisscrossing the surface like long-legged beetles, as if their oars were holding them up on the water.

  He missed the endless horizon of the open sea, but at this time of year he found the same solitude, the vagaries of the weather, the shifting moods, and the thin threat of danger beneath the safety of the settling fog. And now there was this unbelievable happiness of being with Celia. He had only just realized that he could love another person, spend all his spare time and share many of his thoughts with her, and not feel as if he had lost his freedom or his individuality.

  Of course, there were difficult moments, but they were of no importance at all. She never intruded. Why was that? Was she afraid to, in case he minded? She was so vulnerable in completely surprising ways: she could be hurt more than he had realized was possible by a careless word or a silence where he should have said something. How could that hurt? It was never the gesture she minded; it was the omission.